Little known fact: this is likely the final story in the series because of Actual Reasons (sigh) and not in any way a sane person's decision to conclude gracefully (which doesn't sound like me at all! :-D). So, since I decided to throw the kitchen sink into this story(!), we might just have a few chapters popping up here and there between my now-regular Saturday updates before things IRL go nutso and affect my ability to write. :)
(and so here I am, before anyone has shared a review of chapter seventeen, just hoping you liked it and that nobody saw something amiss, confusing, or had a comment/observation that would have been SUPER USEFUL before this chapter went up... because I've really come to rely on you all! :)
Enjoy!
-Button
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FP didn't want to put Jughead through a whole 'off to war' goodbye, so he cooked a hearty breakfast of French toast to occupy them all and made a point of taking Trigger out for a walk when Jughead and Brandon were heading down toward the waterfront for a second tourist outing.
The distraction tactics didn't make FP feel less tense, but the setup seemed to call less attention to the occasion for Jughead, so that was a win.
"I'll text you pictures." Jughead held up his phone as they parted in front of the apartment building. "Love you, Dad."
Brandon and FP had relented on some of the phone restrictions, so long as Jughead promised not to text anyone other than them and kept his GPS off. Honestly, FP had felt a strong urge to get him a gun when he'd heard about the events of the previous day, but that was so far removed from the projection they were attempting with Rose as to be wildly unsafe.
"I love you too, Jug. Have fun." FP gave his son a hug and impulsively patted Brandon on the shoulder in a gesture meant to wish him good luck.
He'd just have to believe that Jughead was up to the challenge, and that Brandon would continue to be the violently protective force of nature on whom he and Jughead had come to rely.
And when he thought about it that way, for some reason FP did feel a little better.
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It was Thursday afternoon. Jughead's freak collapse had been on Tuesday morning, and Fred had hoped - expected - to hear more from FP by now.
Archie had received a couple of brief texts from Jughead on Wednesday evening that contained only emotional content about missing school, friends, and interning and not any news or updates. It sounded like so far the travelers had learned very little from the specialists that they'd consulted with.
Nothing in the texts had given any indication of how they were doing in close quarters either, though Jughead could not have been in the middle of too much strife: he'd included a photo of Trigger lying on a pull-out couch and another photo of a stretch of water reflecting an incredible sunset.
Fred felt only slightly devious when he asked Archie to forward him the small image file of the water so that he could enlarge it and confirm his suspicion about the wavy reflection of a building: the three had apparently gone to Toronto to seek another medical opinion.
That did not make a whole lot of sense given the ins and outs of the medical coverage FP had through Andrews Construction, but cost and copays were probably not their top concern right now; no doubt Brandon had some sort of a connection that they were leveraging.
All the same, Fred couldn't help but think that Jughead must be feeling a lot of pressure, and that if Archie's assessment held even a sliver of the true explanation for his best friend's weight loss and condition, that the whole trip had potential for being in the process of imploding. Those three were increasingly stable by all accounts, but this was a sort of stress that could make even the strongest family unit experience serious fracturing.
Mary was arriving in Riverdale on Friday to help Archie sort out the ever-growing lineup of offers and requests for appearances, and she had made some noises about consulting with a colleague who could advise them on managing Archie's online presence. His music threatened to go viral at any moment, which delighted the young band - and made Fred profoundly nervous.
There was a lot to keep Fred at home. He felt compelled to focus not only on his son, but also on navigating the continued disruptions to Andrews Construction as they slowly tried to get back to a normal schedule after the Southside High debacle.
But there was also the undeniable fact that Mary would not likely be in town again for a while. This was a rare opportunity for Fred to show some of the support he'd been wanting to demonstrate, by traveling to be with Jughead and FP - and, secondarily, with Brandon - for a couple of days.
Fred texted FP. 'I'm working through arrangements with Andrews Construction for the weekend. Do you have a few minutes to talk?'
When his phone rang in his hand, Fred nearly dropped it.
Apparently FP was available to talk.
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It had been another gorgeous day, and Brand had enjoyed scurrying after Jones from vantage point to vantage point, admiring the Toronto skyline and appreciating the much-reduced crowds on the islands. They'd sat together by the water and discussed FP and his efforts to understand what neither of them could fully articulate about their months living in Toronto through the previous winter.
Brand had suggested that, once they'd resolved things with Rose and successfully pulled off the bust, they take a couple of hours before heading home in order to try showing FP around the row home and Jones' radius of territory from those months. It would give FP a better mental image of how circumscribed the kid's existence had been, and probably give them both a better foundation for pushing back against the two overriding impressions that FP clearly vacillated between: that Jones and Brand had led an idyllic home life, or that they had been barely surviving in some kind of wildly violent saloon type of setting.
FP seemed unable to picture - or accept - that they'd developed a somewhat dysfunctional, but only mildly stressful daily pattern that was punctuated by an escalating series of crises that had left both Jones and Brand reeling and adjusting - often without any clue about what the long-term effects of their individual decisions might be.
Jones had been enthusiastic and hopeful about that plan, and he'd described a park that he wanted to show FP. He also thought it might be important for his father to see the basement gym that their new home's basement handily eclipsed with its superior size and equipment. The kid was probably right; FP understood competition, and would be pleased by winning that one.
When Brand looked over at Jones now, though, as they walked slowly through the city blocks toward Rose's house, he had a hard time even picturing in his memory the animated expressions and unguarded energy that the kid had brought to each topic of conversation and each new view of the city and islands. Jones had worked hard to develop a talent for blocking out the unpleasant until he needed to face it.
Now they both had to face it, and Brand was actively fighting his own rising tension - but it was nothing like what the kid was clearly wrestling against.
Jones looked like he was walking death row.
It made some sense. As far as Brand could recall, Jones had fallen into a number of bad situations, but this was his first experience walking into one with his eyes wide open to the danger.
Well, they didn't have much time left for encouragement and admonishments. Brand decided to jump right in.
"If I have to leave you, try not to act too scared. It tends to be like... waving a red flag at some of these types." Brand thought for a moment. "But don't ever forget that you're a hostage, either, no matter what anyone says about your being a 'guest.' And as a hostage, your full-time job is to make your survival the path of least resistance for Rose."
Jones was nodding, but his expression was almost frozen with fear.
"If I leave you, I'll be back for you. Never forget that, no matter what happens. You keep yourself in one piece for me, and I will be back for you." Brand's forehead knit. "Hopefully, though, I won't need to leave you behind in the first place."
Jones looked away and then back up at Brand before he nodded again.
"Can I hear that in words, Jones?"
"Don't let him hurt Dad."
"I won't, killer. That's a big part of why we're here." Brand pulled Jones into a tight hug. "You just keep thinking about your dad, and before you know it you'll have pulled this off. I'll have you home where you belong, and Rose will be long gone."
"Okay." The kid clung to Brand as though he'd been drowning and his godfather was the only thing keeping his head above water.
"Everyone's rooting for you, and we all have your back." Brand closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds as he held his godson. "I get first crack at getting you out, but you were right in guessing that we have backup. The FBI's going to stick close. And your dad's not going to give any of us much time before he's in the middle of things with his shotgun."
"I know. I've got this, Brand." Jones loosened his grip slightly, and Brand gave the kid's spine a quick rub.
"Good. Then let's do this and go home."
They continued down the sidewalk, and Rose's large home came into view. Jones squared his shoulders and Brand felt himself relax into his action mode.
They were ready.
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"Have you thanked Brandon? This is an immense privilege; I've never traveled with anyone with whom I was not romantically involved, and certainly this trip is far more for you than for him." Rose gave Jughead an imperious stare.
It was really hard to tell if this was going well or terribly.
"Oh, yeah." Jughead had to concentrate on not stuttering out his responses. "I've been really glad he offered. I felt so badly about the whole amusement park thing, and then he-,"
"He's doing some work here, yes, but that's no more than his job. I'm talking about the trips around the city. High-priced tickets to the best views and, I have no doubt, the best cuisine Toronto has on offer. You have a lovely camera, too, which Brandon must have supplied?"
"My, uh, friend got it for me. Brand got me this lens, though. It's great - and versatile -, and I've been using it for-,"
"You've certainly come to resemble Brandon since I last saw you. You're chattier than I seem to recall."
Jughead's mouth snapped shut.
Brand smiled proudly, though. "I don't ask for much, Rose, but having an opportunity to pass on my experience, skills, and personality traits is the great privilege of being human. You know, he moves just like me when he fights, and his analysis is going to be first rate once he's gotten that prefrontal cortex fully grown. Another man might not like to look in the mirror, but I'm liable to get vain with such a high-end younger model looking back at me."
Rose laughed. "Well, Brandon. You haven't asked for anything else, it's true. And I sometimes think that you could dine on your vanity and never feel hungry again."
Jughead didn't think that sounded like a compliment, but Brand looked at Rose as if it was the most flattering thing he'd ever been told.
"I do aim to back up my self-conception with action, it's true. And you know what they say about accurate self-assessment when one truly is great. It looks and sounds a lot like bragging."
"'Great' as evidenced by your living mirror, I have no doubt?" Rose included Jughead in his smile this time. "That may well be the case. I have been puzzled by your unwillingness to even consider a substitute, whether it was for that dog or the boy, but I suppose the raw materials need to be there in the right proportions."
"Hey, don't forget: attachment is a feature, not a bug." Brand said the words as though he'd said them many times before to Rose, in precisely the same context. "I don't get attached too much to too many things, and I hate to waste it when I do."
"And on that we'll have to agree to disagree," Rose said firmly, his expression darkening for a moment before it cleared again just as quickly. "I predicted weakness, though, and you've admittedly shown nothing but strength. I am a fair man, and you will have what you want."
Brand's expression did not change then, but Jughead caught his eye for a fleeting moment and could tell instantly that that unassuming declaration was it: they were officially in the clear for phase one of their plan. Rose had forgiven Jughead, or maybe he'd just agreed to indulge Brand in his pet project - though perhaps 'pet' was the more accurate term, given the way they talked about him -, but either way they'd done it.
"You should stay for dinner. I can't have you stay longer, not tonight, but I'd be a terrible host if I didn't feed you."
And there was the next step. As simply as that, another success.
Jughead felt like he was going to be sick with relief. He would not be staying as a 'guest' after all; he could leave with Brand and not be alone with Rose for even one minute.
Brand caught his eye again and Jughead was further encouraged when he could see his godfather's relief plainly. It was all going to be okay.
And then Rose explained why they had to leave after dinner.
And Jughead knew that nothing would ever be okay again.
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FP clipped Trigger's lead to his collar for another walk. The dog had been carrying a tennis ball around the small apartment for the past thirty minutes or so, and it didn't take a professional dog trainer to figure out that meant he craved stimulation.
Jughead and Brandon would probably be exhausted when they got home, too, and not in any shape to take Trig for a run.
A walk would also distract FP from the possibility - remote though Brandon had described it as being - that there would only be the two adults in the apartment tonight.
When Trigger almost jerked the leash out of his hands, FP was grateful for something to focus on as he commanded the dog to heel and enjoyed the fruits of Jughead's painstaking labors. Trigger was a very responsive dog so long as he had clear expectations to meet, and FP had been subjected to plenty of Jughead's miniature tutorials on how to communicate effectively with the dog.
It had also been a pleasant distraction catching up with Fred, who had some fool notion in his mind about traveling to 'support' them while Jughead was 'diagnosed.' Keeping things vague and open-ended was not particularly challenging, since Fred was unfailingly polite and more worried than meddling by nature. And it had been nice to hear his voice, and even to have an opportunity to give voice to his fears about losing Jughead - having no control in the situation - and having to trust others to give his boy what he needed in order to survive.
They'd been having two entirely different conversations, but Fred Andrews truly had a knack for saying the right thing. FP appreciated that immensely, and had also appreciated Fred's directive to pass along to Jughead his good wishes for a successful trip.
Once he'd locked up the apartment, FP pulled on the baseball cap Brandon had told him to wear if he was out and about during daylight hours. They were intentionally based in a part of Toronto that Rose had no interest in - far away from his house and dealings - but taking the extra precaution felt good. It felt like something FP could do, anyway.
FP dropped his eyes to his phone one last time before beginning the walk. Jughead had texted him a number of photos, including a picture that Brandon must have taken of him on one of the islands, with the Toronto skyline spreading out behind him. Jughead was grinning and giving the phone camera an exuberant thumbs-up gesture.
Hopefully that would be precisely what he did in person, in just a few hours, when he was safely back and step one of the plan was completed. FP shoved his phone into his pocket, resolving to mentally prepare himself for that outcome.
After all, the last thing Jughead needed was the tall order of reassuring his father and managing FP's emotions after a day like this. Maybe Trigger was not the only one who would benefit from a good run and settling in for a lower-energy evening that allowed Jughead and Brandon more space to react to their own stressful day.
FP found even that idea heartening. It was one more thing that he could do.
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"This way. Come on." Brand was trying to steer Jughead toward the restroom to wash up before dinner, but a strange movement had caught his eye.
"Hang on. What's-,"
"Now, Jones." Brand had obviously already figured out what was going on, but he was just a millisecond too slow to prevent Jughead from moving to where he could see into the adjacent hall.
Jughead's eyes widened when he saw a smaller human being herded down the hallway.
The boy was hooded, just like Jughead had been when he'd been kidnapped in Toronto, and his shoulders were hunched as if he were waiting for blows to rain down on him. Jughead assumed that his arms were restrained, since his wrists clearly overlapped behind his back, but both his hands and any bindings were obscured by the long sleeves of his sweatshirt bunching up behind him.
The man guiding the blinded boy roughly by one elbow gave Brand a smile and a nod as if there was nothing at all noteworthy about him manhandling a helpless prisoner around the property.
Jughead swallowed hard. He could feel the tightening of a zip tie around his own neck and recall the taste of the fabric gag that had dried his mouth out so horribly over hours of panting for the weak stream of oxygen he'd been able to manage. Jughead couldn't tell if the hood on this kid's head was airtight, or how securely it was gathered around his neck, but he could see the smaller teen's chest working with the effort to bring in enough air.
Without realizing he was doing so, Jughead moved to follow the two down the hallway.
And then he was jerked backward.
"That's it. Go home." Brand had grabbed Jughead's arm tightly. "I'll follow you when we're done, but this is way above your pay grade. Go. Take the subway; nobody's going to touch you in this town now that you've been to see Rose. Text for someone to meet you." They both knew he meant FP.
Jughead nodded jerkily, trying to get his mind to let go of what he knew was happening in this very house.
"Go. I'll make excuses with Rose; you heard straight from him that he's fine with my handling you from now on, so don't even think twice about that. It was already beyond the pale for him to even tell you about-," Brand broke off in frustration, clearly recalling that this was not the time or place to rail against Rose. "He's being too careless with you. This is unacceptable. I want you to... I don't know, curl up with your dog until you feel safe. This is not your fight, and this is not something that will ever happen to you; I promise you that. I'll be a few hours behind you at most."
"Brand-,"
"There's nothing for it. Go now." Brand gave Jughead a pitying look. "This is not something you should ever have seen."
Jughead thought it was more than a little late for that. He broke away from Brand and headed toward the front door, feeling mechanical and almost like he was disconnected from his own body's actions.
And then everything snapped sharply into focus, and he knew what he had to do. Jughead hoped that he could still get into the townhouse; he was pretty sure that the rest of this he could pull off, as long as he was quick - and quiet.
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Once he was outside, Jughead made his way toward the only dark window on the first floor that seemed to be close to where he'd seen the boy.
It wouldn't do to get caught breaking into Rose's house. Jughead also figured it was quite likely that nobody would leave a light on for a hooded prisoner. He hoped that his hunch would pay off, but either way this was his most promising point of entry.
Jughead wasn't sure what to do when he found that the window was locked.
Breaking it wasn't an option, and Brand had never taught him how to unlock a window. It might not be a teachable skill, even.
Then the window lit up right in front of his face.
Jughead dropped to the ground, hoping with all of his heart that he had not been spotted.
Seconds ticked by, and there were some small sounds of movement in the room - and then the window opened slightly. It sounded like the screen was being raised as well. A strong smell of cigarette smoke washed over Jughead, and he realized with a start that someone was sneaking a smoking break in Rose's house.
That was not an employee who was likely to last long.
Or maybe it was not a regular in Rose's household. It might be that people who transported prisoners didn't know the rules of the house, or how scary Rose could be. Jughead was suddenly hopeful.
When only the window closed and he did not hear the lock mechanism engage, he was even more hopeful.
The light in the room went out.
Jughead waited a few moments and then slowly slid the screen further up and eased the window open. He was slipping into the room and letting his eyes adjust within the space of just a few more heartbeats, and he began to move toward the hallway to try and figure out where the kidnapped boy was being held.
And then he heard a small, kitten-like whimper.
The surge of instinct, panic, and adrenaline that suddenly washed through Jughead left him dizzy, and somehow moved him across the room to clap a hand over the boy's hooded face before he was fully aware of what he was doing. The prisoner had been left in the dark after all, with his bound arms cuffed to a fancy wooden armchair.
He was obviously not meant to be left here for long. Jughead suddenly had visions of the smoker taking a bathroom break. There might only be scant seconds remaining before they were discovered.
The boy whimpered a second time, insistently and with no small amount of fear.
"Shhh. Come on. We have to be quick." Jughead leaned over the chair and pulled the back of the boy's head against his chest so that he could clamp his left hand over the kid's mouth and free up his right hand to fish out his pocket knife. The boy began to make more small, frightened noises under his hand, so Jughead gripped his nose tightly as well and choked off the sounds as best he could. "You have to be quiet. I'm here to help."
Thankfully he had a lot of practice with handcuffs, courtesy of Brand and Clark, so even wielding the knife in one hand Jughead had the cuffs opened and both of them stumbling toward the open window before he had to worry about whether he might accidentally suffocate the smaller teen.
"We're going out the window. Stay quiet. I'm going to take off your blindfold and try to get your arms free." Jughead used his knife to slash at the cords holding the hood in place. Leaving it on the floor of the room seemed like the best plan; they didn't want a trail of breadcrumbs left behind them in the night.
The boy had a cloth gag tied into his mouth, and Jughead pulled it down around his neck before he slid the teen's sweatshirt sleeves up. There were several zip ties securing the boy's wrists to his opposite elbows and strapping his forearms together, which explained the strange visual of his sweatshirt sleeves bunching up and completely covering his hands.
Jughead made short work of the tough plastic and then began tugging the teenager out the window as quickly and quietly as he could manage.
Soon they were standing on the lawn, and Jughead began plotting a course that would keep them out of the light streaming from the house itself, and also away from the ambient city light as much as possible. They could do this.
The boy coughed once, so Jughead clamped his hand down over the teen's face again and began dragging him away from the house. He found himself murmuring reassuring things that did not entirely make sense.
"You're okay. Just stay quiet; we'll be out of here in no time. Nobody's going to hurt you. We're going to get you home, wherever that is. I didn't mean to scare you. You're okay. I promise you'll be okay."
It would all have been more convincing coming from someone who wasn't forcibly holding the teen's mouth shut and debating whether he needed to cut off his air entirely - just until they were a little further away - to keep them safe in the darkness.
Jughead tried not to think about that, though, as he continued muttering to the teen. "You're going to be fine. I've got you. Just breathe. Shhhhh."
When the teen planted his feet and bucked against his grip, now entirely silent but clearly panicking, Jughead abruptly realized that he had already cut off the boy's air without realizing it. He adjusted his grip swiftly, horrified by his own mistake, and winced when he felt and heard desperate lungfuls of air whistling past his fingers through the boy's nose.
This was all turning out to be a little more complicated than he'd imagined.
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...As life often will insist on being. :) I hope you are well, and that you enjoyed! As always, I will love hearing your thoughts, and I'll be much encouraged by hearing from you while working on chapter nineteen!
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